


Jive Turkey

by Bamboozlepig



Category: Adam-12
Genre: Adult Situations, Gen, Humor, Language, Thanksgiving story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamboozlepig/pseuds/Bamboozlepig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Macy's Department Store, plus one live turkey on the loose, plus Ed Wells, equals a complete disaster as an animal complaint rapidly turns into a hilarious situation involving our heroes in blue dacron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jive Turkey

**Author's Note:**

> Adam-12 is the property of MarkVII/Universal, no copyright infringement intended. "I Got You Babe" lyrics copyright Sonny and Cher. **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

"Soooo…" Jim Reed says, in a contemplative tone of voice. "Any idea on if your neighbor, Angie, is going to do another Halloween party next year?"

I shoot him an amazed look. "You have to be kidding me, right?" I ask. "After what happened at THIS year's party? The answer to that question is a big, fat NO!"

"Did you ask her?" Reed inquires.

"Ask her?" I say. "How in the hell can I ask her, when she STILL isn't speaking to me, thanks to  _you_ jerks!"

"Hey!" he says defensively. " _I_  wasn't the one who leered at her in her Carmen Miranda costume, and asked her if her melons were real. THAT was Count Dumbcula, if you remember right."

"Remember right," I groan. "Puh-LEESE. I'm trying to FORGET the whole fiasco, if I can."

"Ed got his just dues paid back in full," Reed says gleefully. "After she shoved him into the pool."

"Yeah, but he took Brinkman down with him, and poor Brink…the weight of his chains made him think he was in danger of drowning, so he started thrashing around, dunking Ed even worse."

"Heh heh," Reed chuckles. "And Ed thought he'd get even with Brinkman, and de-pantsed him, only he pulled Brinkman's boxers down, too. I sure hope for Brink's sake, that he can use the excuse that the pool was awfully cold." He thinks for a moment. "What was it that Brink yelled at Ed again?"

"You sank my battleship!" I tell him.

He snorts, laughing a bit. "Battleship, right. It was more like a dinghy."

"Dinghy, hell," I say, grinning. "It was more like a wayward bouy."

Reed winces. "Ooh, you're mean, Pete!" he chuckles. "Someone shoulda warned Brink that when pale pink gets wet, it's like white; it turns…uh… _transparent_."

"All I can say is that it was a LOT more of Brinkman than I've ever cared to see," I tell him. "I still have nightmares."

"Mrs. O'Brien thought it was pretty funny," Reed says. "For an elderly gal, she's got quite the sense of humor. But I suppose she has to, with tenants like you living in her building."

"Gee, thanks," I say sarcastically. "She didn't think it was too funny when Walters jumped in the pool in his Wolfman costume."

"Did you see the look on his face when she yelled at him that no dogs were allowed in the pool?" he asks.

"No, I was too busy trying to keep Shaaron and Woods from playing 'Spin the Mummy' with Russo," I tell him.

"Sure hope he doesn't intend to use that gauze again," Reed says. "After everything that happened to it." He shoots me a wry grin. "Did you see Mac's green coloring is starting to fade now?"

"Yeah, he should be back to normal by Christmas," I tell him. "Although you gotta admit, it's a bit different, to see your sergeant looking like Kermit the Frog. Kinda livens up the station, you know?"

"I wouldn't let him hear you say that, Pete," Jim laughs. "Otherwise he'll stick you in the meter maid division."

I grin. "What's wrong with that?" I ask. "I'd probably look good in a short skirt. I have sexy legs, after all."

"Oh my god," he says, in mock horror. "I don't even wanna  _consider_ that image, Malloy. You? In a meter maid skirt? Oh, the humanity, the humanity! Women would faint dead away! Children would flee in terror! Men would keel over from laughing!" He shakes his head. "No, Pete, I don't think the world is quite ready for you in a meter maid skirt. Maybe in a thousand years, but not now."

"Thanks," I say, still grinning. "You just gave me a wonderful idea for my Halloween costume NEXT year."

He looks at me in shock. "Oh…you… _wouldn't_!" he gasps.

"Try me," I say. "I'd make an adorable meter maid. Of course, I'd have to wear a girdle."

"Pete, all of the girdles in the world couldn't make you an adorable meter maid," he says. "There isn't enough elastic in the universe to help mold your…um…your…uh…"

"Fat?" I ask. "Are you hinting that I'm fat?"

"Eh…I'm just thinking maybe you might wanna lay off the strawberry-pistachio ice cream for awhile. And maybe lunch. And maybe dinner," he says. "And possibly even breakfast."

I shoot him a mock-dirty look. "I'm not fat, I'm pleasantly proportioned," I tell him. "I'm the right weight for my height, you string-bean sized freak."

"Hey," he says, putting his hands up defensively. "All I'm saying is, I wouldn't go to see Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade in New York City, Pete."

"Why's that?" I ask. "And keep in mind before you answer that, I AM the senior man in the car."

"Those balloon handlers that lead those huge balloons are liable to think you're one, and try and float you down the street," he smirks, then he cracks up at his own joke.

"Smartass," I tell him. "Just for that, I won't give you any of the ideas I have on who spudnapped your Mr. Potato Head from the Halloween party."

"Ooh," he says, straightening up in his seat. "Who do you think it is? Tell me, tell me, tell me!"

"The head of the Vegetable Mafia, Don Tomato Barleycorn," I tell him.

"Could be, could be," Reed says musingly. "Whoever's got him, they sent me one of his little ears in the mail today, along with a note."

"Huh," I say. "What'd the note say?"

"Just that if I didn't meet with their demands, Mr. Potato Head was gonna be sleepin' wid da fishes."

"What's the demand?" I ask.

"I dunno, they haven't gotten that far," Reed shrugs. "They'll probably make me an offer I can't refuse."

"Well," I say in my best Godfather's voice. "You'd better do as they ask. Otherwise Mr. Potato Head is liable to meet with an ah…unfortunate mashing accident."

"It's better dan sleepin' wid da fishes," Reed says.

"Or swimming with cement shoes off of the Santa Monica Pier," I say.

He casts me a wary glance out of the corner of his eye. "I don't suppose you seriously know who spudnapped him, do you?" he asks.

"Not a clue, partner," I say, completely deadpan as I keep my eyes on the road. "Not a clue."

"Yeah, well, in any case…" he sighs. "By the way, are they real?" he asks me.

"Are what real?" I ask.

He leers lasciviously at me. "You know, Angie's melons. Are they real?"

"How the hell should I know?" I reply. "It'll be Easter before she decides to speak to me again, if even then. So I haven't had a chance to find out if her melons are real."

 _"One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, copy an animal complaint. See the manager, Macy's Department Store, 920 West 7_ _th_ _Street. He'll be waiting out in the front to show you in. Be advised that animal control has been notified of this call, and is unable to respond at this time. Handle code two,"_ our dispatcher interrupts.

"One-Adam-12, roger," Reed says into the mike. "Probably a bat loose in the store or something, you think?"

"Could be," I say, as I turn the black-and-white towards Macy's. "Or maybe it's a tiger."

"If that's the case, then I'll let you go in first," he says.

"Thanks, Junior," I say, my voice heavy with sarcasm. "Why is that?"

"On account of two things," he says. "Number one, you're the senior man in the car. Number two, if the tiger decides to snack on one of us, you're the better choice. You're more of an all-you-can-eat buffet, while I'm just an appetizer."

"You're also a bonehead," I say. "I've a good mind to take you down and sit on you, squashing you with my big fat ass."

"Who you threatenin', you jive turkey?" he asks, grinning. "I'd like to see you try, Malloy."

"Don't tempt me," I warn.

* * *

When we pull up outside of Macy's, we're greeted with the sight of several panicked shoppers milling about frantically outside the store in front of huge plate glass windows merrily decorated with holiday displays. As we get out of the car, a very thin, bespectacled man in a grey suit and perfectly groomed moustache approaches us, wringing his hands nervously. "Oh dear, Officers," he says. "I'm certainly glad you got here so quickly! You must do something!"

"Uh…what exactly is the problem, Mister…" I begin.

"Mr. Kern," he says. "I'm the day manager of the store. Oh, it's terrible, just terrible!" he moans, wringing his hands some more. He shakes his head sadly.

Another squad car pulls up and parks behind ours. Ed Wells and Bob Brinkman get out.

"Oh great, Idiot Boy and Mr. Peekaboo Pants," Reed mutters, spotting them. "Just what we needed."

Ed saunters over, adjusting his watchcap and gunbelt like he's preparing for the shootout at the OK Corral. "Heard your animal call, Malloy," he says, nodding to me. "So we thought we'd swing over and see if we could help." He turns to the manager. "What's the trouble, pal? You got a bat loose in the store or somethin'?"

Before Mr. Kern can answer, another horde of screaming shoppers exits the store rapidly, and several run shrieking across the street. "You gotta catch that thing!" one lady shouts at us as she runs past. "It's gone on a rampage!"

"Please," Mr. Kern says, motioning to the four of us. "Follow me!"

"Wait a sec," I say. "This isn't a dangerous animal that's on the loose in there, is it?"

"No, no," he assures us. "Not dangerous. Just follow me, I'll show you what's going on."

We step into the brightly-lit store, Christmas decorations already up. Everything sparkles and shimmers so blindingly, it makes me blink. White and gold garland is strung up everywhere, while a sign happily announces that it's only 15 days until Santa Claus officially arrives at Macy's! Already his North Pole has been established in a corner of the store, rather conveniently near the toy section, his winter wonderland decked out in cheery plastic candy canes, piles of fake snow, and a huge gold throne with red velvet seat cushions that looks like something Elvis might want for Christmas. Eight tiny plastic reindeer are attached to an arch over the throne, with the ninth reindeer, Rudolph, flying front and center, his red bulb nose flashing off an on at a rate fast enough to turn the North Pole into Bernie's Disco-Rama. At the entrance to Santa's North Pole Macy's site, a life-size mechanical Santa turns on a pedestal, waving his gloved hand and ho-ho-ho-ing in a tinny voice, as if building anticipation for the real Santa Claus. Between jolly, if somewhat creepy, ho-ho's, he exhorts the shoppers to do all of their holiday shopping at Macy's, where something can be found for even the hardest-to-buy-for person on their gift lists. He then lists the different departments in the store, in amazingly complete and robotic alphabetical order.

"I never have difficulty getting anything for even the hardest-to-buy-for person on my list," Reed whispers to me. "I get 'em socks."

I look at him askance. "That's what you gave ME last year," I tell him.

"And maybe THIS year you'll tell me what you want for Christmas, Pete," he says. "So you DON'T end up getting socks again."

"Easy," I tell him. "How about Sophia Loren in a Ferrari, topless?"

"Which one do you want topless, Sophia Loren or the Ferrari?" he asks, slightly confused.

"Both," I grin.

Ed Wells has heard us and pipes up with his wooden nickel advice. "I always give my wife the same thing every year, a bottle of Evening In Paris perfume, a pair of gloves, and vaccum cleaner bags."

"Are the gloves you give her by any chance a pair of boxing gloves?" I ask Ed over my shoulder. "So she can pound the shit out of you for giving her such crappy gifts?"

"Gee, Ed, you're a true romantic at heart," Reed tells him. "Nothing says 'I Love You' like vaccum cleaner bags."

"That's not the worst of it," Brinkman says. "One year he gave her a coupon book for discounts at various stores, so not only was Ed being frugal and practical with that gift, he was also telling Betty that he loved her so much, she could get free drink refills at Whataburger and half-off her muffler job at Dan's Muffler and Brake Service. If that isn't love, I don't know what is."

"Hey, I'll have you know she used most of those coupons," Ed informs us. "Even the brake and muffler one, when the Vista Cruiser needed repairs. So it was the gift that kept on giving."

"And someone should tell you to STOP giving, Ed," Reed tells him. "For the good of mankind."

Suddenly another horde of frightened, shrieking shoppers stampedes towards us, flailing shopping bags, umbrellas, and purses at anything in their way. Reed and I barely escape being trampled by hopping up on a glass display case of expensive diamond jewelry, while Ed and Brink dive onto the perfume display case across the aisle. The salesladies manning those posts scream and take cover behind the counters on the floor. One lady shopper, her head nearly bald, save for a few wisps of straggly hair, runs past us with her hands covering her head. "It's got my wig!" she yells as she scurries by. "My $150 wig!"

"Ooh, look, a diamond tennis bracelet!" Reed exclaims, looking down at the jewelry showcased underneath our butts. "Jean would love that! And it's only fifty bucks!"

I look at the bracelet through the glass. "You're reading the tag wrong," I tell him. "It's five hundred bucks, you idiot."

"Man, did you hafta sit on an atomizer?" Brinkman complains to Ed. "Now your ass smells like Chanel No. 5."

"Better that than what it usually smells like," Ed replies.

I look around for the manager and spot him quivering behind a rack of floor length hostess gowns. "Mr. Kern?" I ask, sliding off of the jewelry counter. "You need to tell us what's going on here. What exactly is it that's loose in your store?"

"Whatever it is, it likes wigs," Reed says, sliding off the case too. He joins me, along with Brink and the rather perfumey Ed. "C'mon, Mr. Kern. What in the world is going on here?"

Mr. Kern slips out from behind the gowns. "Follow me," he says and hurries down the main aisle to the center of the store, his shoes clicking on the glossy tile. We trail in his wake, three cops and Mr. Coco Chanel, as frightened saleclerks pop their heads up from their hiding spots like prairie dogs, to follow our progress through the store. Mr. Kern comes to a stop in the middle of the store. He gestures to a display consisting of a large wire animal crate on a table. Food and water bowls are tucked into the crate, along with plenty of straw. The metal door hangs open, and a few white feathers float around in the air. A placard invites shoppers to "Correctly guess the turkey's weight and win it for your Thanksgiving dinner!"

"See?" the manager says, nearly in tears, and wringing his hands in sheer agony. "It's Raoul. He's gotten loose, and he's running amok in the store!"

"Uh…Raoul?" Reed asks.

"Our turkey!" the little man cries. "We're holding a contest! If the customer guesses his correct weight, they win him for their Thanksgiving dinner!"

"He's a live turkey, right?" Ed Wells asks.

"Of course," the little man sniffs somewhat disdainfully. "Do you think Macy's would give away a  _frozen_  turkey?"

Reed is looking at the cage. "How'd Raoul get sprung in the first place?" he asks.

"I have no clue!" he wails. "All I know is that I was working in my office, and I get a frantic phone call from one of my floorwalkers telling me that Raoul is on the loose inside the store!"

"Have you tried to catch him yourselves?" Ed asks.

"Of course we have!" he informs us. "But the more we've tried, the more agitated Raoul gets! He's already nipped two security guards, and attacked one of my salesladies in Junior Misses!"

"This is really more of a call for animal control," I say. "Not the police department. Animal control is better equipped for dealing with wayward poultry than we are, Mr. Kern."

"But I've CALLED animal control!" he tells me. "They're busy dealing with something at a local petting zoo!"

"One of the goats must have escaped," Reed whispers to me.

"What is it exactly that you'd like us to do with…uh…Raoul?" I ask.

Mr. Kern stares at me in amazement. "Why, shoot him, of course! What else would you do?"

"We can't exactly shoot a turkey in a department store," I tell him. "Not only is it dangerous, it's also not allowed."

Mr. Kern wrings his hands even harder. "Oh dear!" he says. "Then what do I do? I simply  _cannot_  have a live turkey running amok in my store, terrorizing my customers!"

"Well pilgrim," Ed says, evidently feeling a bit John Wayne-ish, while smelling a bit Elizabeth Taylor-ish. "We could try and catch him for you, get him back in his cage."

"What, are you kidding me, Ed?" I ask. "We can't go chasing after a stupid turkey in a store." I turn to Mr. Kern. "Look, I'm sure animal control will be here as soon as they can. Until then, maybe you should consider evacuating the store, just so…uh…Raoul doesn't continue to terrorize your customers."

"I can't do that!" Mr. Kern says. "I can't close the store down without express permission from Macy's headquarters in New York City! And it has to be for a very good reason, like an earthquake or a fire, before they'll consider letting me close the store at all! A wayward turkey just isn't good enough!"

"Why don't we give it a shot, Pete?" Brinkman asks. "The least we can do is try and corral it somewhere, contain it until animal control gets here."

"Yeah, c'mon, Pete, what's the harm in trying?" Reed asks. "Surely it can't be THAT hard to catch a turkey."

"Plus, there's four of us and only one of him," Ed points out. "So the odds aren't exactly stacked in his favor."

I stare at them. "Have you guys ever dealt with a live turkey?" I ask.

"We're dealing with you right now," Ed quips. "Does that count?"

I shoot him a glare. "No, it doesn't, Pepe LePew. Turkeys are not the most even-tempered birds in the world."

"So that would explain a lot of your bad moods, Pete," Reed says, grinning.

"Stick a Christmas sock in it, Reed," I snap. "Or else I'll give you a sack of reindeer poop for Christmas this year." I look at Mr. Kern, who looks back at me with a hopeful expression. "Okay, fine," I sigh, clearly outnumbered. "We'll try and round up your wayward turkey. Where was he last seen at?"

"In the…ahem… _lawn-ger-aye_  department," Mr. Kern whispers daintily, as if it's a state secret he's imparting to me.

"Lawn-ger-aye?" Ed asks, scratching his head. "What the hell's that? I didn't know Macy's sold lawn equipment."

"It's spelled L-I-N-G-E-R-I-E," I tell him. "But it's pronounced lawn-ger-aye."

"Huh," says Brinkman. "I always thought it was pronounced lingeree." Brink looks at me. "So what is it, anyway?"

"Ladies' things," I tell him, feeling myself blush a bit. "Undergarments. Panties and slips, girdles and bras, things like that."

"Oh," Brink says, then his eyes go wide as he realizes what I'm talking about. "OH!" he says, turning bright crimson. He and Reed engage in a coughing and foot shuffling fit, as they feign sudden interest in the tile on Macy's floor. And I'm very glad that neither of them asks me how in the world I even know what lingerie is.

"Okay, so let's go get into ladies' undergarments," Ed says, hitching his gunbelt up once more. "Time's a-wasting. We're standing around here yapping, when we could be in panties and girdles." We all stare at him, smiles twitching around our lips. "What," he says, shrugging. "We could be looking for Raoul in lingerie." He looks at us with dismay, as the three of us crack up hooting with laughter, while Mr. Kern politely chuckles. "I don't get it, what's so funny?" Ed asks.

"Which cup size do you prefer, Ed?" Reed asks, gasping for breath.

"I prefer a coffee cup," Ed tells him. "A medium-sized one. Why?"

"Do you want a girdle with slimming side panels or a tummy tucker?" Brinkman hee-hees.

"I don't wear a girdle," Ed tells him with a frown.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I put a hand on his shoulder. "Ed, sometimes you amaze me with the stuff that comes out of your mouth. It's just priceless. Someday, I'll have to write all of this down. Otherwise no one would belive me."

"I still don't get it," Ed says. "If the turkey was last seen in ladies' undergarments, then we should get into ladies' undergarments and try and catch him."

"I wonder if Raoul prefers a black lacy number, or a fire-engine red teddy?" Brinkman asks. "How about you, Ed? Would you like a sexy black number or a hot little red number?"

"Neither," Ed says, thoroughly confused. "I outgrew teddies back when I was twelve. I gave them all to my younger sister." And with that statement, the three of us collapse onto the floor in the middle of Macy's, laughing our asses off, while Mr. Kern clutches a nearby counter for support as he heartily chuckles. "You know, you guys are real jerks sometimes," Ed complains as he shakes his head. "I'm going to get into lingerie and see if I can find a turkey," he says, stalking off.

"Try looking in a mirror!" I call out to him, as we pick ourselves up off the floor, still laughing.

* * *

Raoul, as it turns out, is not in the lingerie department; instead, he has apparently wandered over to Fine Home Furnishings and is wreaking havoc there, as evidenced by the horde of shrieking shoppers that flee from that area.

"How in the hell do you call a turkey?" Ed asks, as the four of us enter the department, looking for Raoul.

"I dunno, Ed," Reed says. "How does your wife call you when she wants something?"

"She usually calls out 'hey, stupid!'," Ed tells Jim, then he glares. "Oh, funny, Reed. Har-dee-har-har."

"You know, Ed, that turkey may be some of your relation," I tell him. "You'd better be nice to him."

"Ed, your ass is giving me a headache," Brinkman complains. "Could you stand downwind of me?"

We spot Raoul in all of his white-feathered, red-headed, wattle-y glory, strutting casually across a glass-topped dining room table, with a bowl of fake fruit in the center. Raoul casually plucks a wax grape off with his sharp beak and proceeds to try to eat it. When he's unsuccessful with that one, he plucks another one off and pecks away at it. Raoul looks to weigh at  _least_  fifty pounds, and could likely take on Muhammed Ali in a rousing game of Chicken and win.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God," I breathe, taking in the turkey's enormous size. "That is one huge-assed turkey!"

"That ain't no turkey," Reed says in awe from beside me. "That's a freakin' jumbo jet!"

"I'm not getting NEAR that thing!" Brinkman says. "It's liable to pluck my eyes out!"

"Oh hell," Ed says disdainfully. "I'm not afraid of a dumb turkey." He pulls the bill on his watchcap down over his eyes and approaches the huge white bird with a fragrant swagger. "Okay, Raoul, time to go back into your cage, pal."

"Quick, who you wanna bet on?" Reed asks. "Ed or the turkey?"

"The turkey," Brinkman and I both reply in unison.

"Should we give him backup?" Reed asks.

"Eh…no," I say. "Let's hang back and see what happens. Maybe Ed can catch him by himself."

"C'mon, Raoul, you've had your fun, now it's time to go back into your jail cell," Ed tells the turkey. "Good turkey, good turkey."

"Why do I get the feeling that's what he says after he's stuffed his face on Thanksgiving Day?" Brinkman asks.

Raoul has stopped disemboweling the wax banana out of the fruit basket, and is watching Ed's approach with beady black eyes. He cocks his head at Ed's voice, his wattle swinging gaily. "Gluk?" he asks, eyeing Ed with avid curiosity. "Gluk?"

"Good Raoul, good turkey," Ed says, holding his hands up. "See? Old Ed ain't gonna hurt you, not at all. I just wanna catch you and…" With that, Ed lunges at the turkey, landing with a crash onto the glass-topped table. The glass slides off of the table, landing on the floor with a shattering sound, while Ed is ingloriously sprawled across the bare wood of the table, the fruit bowl perched upon his watchcap. The turkey has taken to flight with a loud squawk off towards the housewares department, where several shrill shrieks, followed by the sound of running feet, herald his immediate arrival. Ed rights himself from his prone position on the table. He plucks the fruit bowl off of his watchcap with a disgusted grunt, and brushes at the few grapes that adorn his hat brim.

"Hey look, it's Carmen Miranda," Reed says with a grin. "Tell me, are your melons real, Miss Miranda?"

"Can it, Reed," Ed snaps. "I certainly hope Macy's doesn't expect me to pay for that glass table topper I just broke. It was damage incurred in the line of duty." He looks around. "Where'd that damned turkey go?"

"Into the housewares department," I tell him.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Ed huffs. "No damned turkey makes a fool out of Ed Wells!"

"No, only Ed Wells makes a fool out of Ed Wells," I say.

"Shut up, Pete," Ed says. "Raoul, prepare to meet your maker!"

"You know, that would be a LOT more threatening if you didn't smell like an expensive Parisian whorehouse," Brinkman says.

"And how would YOU know what an expensive Parisian whorehouse smells like, Brink?" I ask, exchanging a grin with Reed.

"Uh…er…never mind," Brinkman stutters, turning a vivid shade of crimson.

Stalking after the turkey, Ed begins to whistle the theme from "The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly," while the three of us follow behind at a safe distance, trying to stay downwind.

* * *

In the housewares department, Raoul is quite busy checking out a variety of blenders, apparently trying to decide between a Cuisinart or a KitchenAid.

"Go with a Cuisinart, Raoul!" Reed tells him. "It chops better!"

"But the KitchenAid has a higher speed setting!" Brinkman calls.

"Pick whichever one makes the best margaritas!" I yell.

"That would be the Cuisinart, Pete," Reed says.

"Will you idiots shut up?" Ed asks.

Raoul hops into a large mixing bowl, nestling himself in for a moment. Then, with a contented gabble, he hops out and struts over to a display of vaccum cleaners, landing first on an upright Hoover model, then skipping over to an Eureka canister vac.

"Ooh, don't go with a canister vaccum, Raoul," Reed tells him. "Canister vacs are hard on the backs of your feet. You pull those puppies along while vaccuming and the canister part clips your Achilles' tendon if you're not careful. Stick with the upright."

Ed looks over his shoulder at us. "It's a turkey, Reed, not a person. Quit talking to it like it's human."

"Why, we have to talk to you like you're human," I say.

"Eww," Ed says, peering into the mixing bowl Raoul vacated. "I would NOT recommend buying  _that_  mixing bowl. Raoul left some stuffing in there."

With an unconcerned air, Raoul scoots away from the vaccums and wanders into the fine china section, delicately picking his way around hundred dollar place settings and crystal wineglasses without knocking over a single one. He catches sight of his reflection in a silver champagne bucket and cocks his head, cooing at himself. He bobs this way and that, his wattle swinging merrily, his beady little eyes sparkling with delight. "Gabble?" he asks his reflection, pecking at it. "Gluk?" Quickly losing interest in it when it doesn't respond, he hops into a large display case of Baccarat crystal. He studies the rainbow prisms cast off by the lighting into the finely-cut glasses and decanters. He hops around with the delicacy of a ballerina, never bumping a single $150 wine glass.

"Jeez, I wish I could do that," Brinkman says in amazement. "My wife thinks I'm a klutz in the kitchen."

"Mine, too," Reed says. "Lucky for you, Pete, that you're a bachelor. You don't hafta worry about being klutzy in the kitchen and breaking glasses or dishes."

"Hey, I have breakable stuff," I say.

"I wouldn't exactly call Dixie plates and cups breakable," Reed says wryly.

"I have dishes," I tell him. "In fact, I have a set of china that was my grandmother's. It's got her family monogram on it."

"Yeah, and you're grandmother's name was Dixie," Reed laughs.

"Oh, shut up," I tell him.

Ed has crept around the display case of fine china and approaches Raoul once more. "Okay, you dumb turkey," he says, creeping towards the bird that is now perched daintily atop a stack of blue-flowered china dinner plates. Raoul watches his stealthy approach with his beady eyes, not even giving into concern when Ed's face is slightly distorted through a row of crystal brandy snifters. "Gluk?" he asks, cocking his head with curiosity once more.

"Just stay where you are," Ed hisses, crouching low with his hands out in front of him.

With horror, I realize what Ed is about to do next. "No, Ed, don't…!" I start to yell, but it's too late, Ed has dived once more, sending Raoul into feathery flight, and the fine china and crystal brandy snifters crashing loudly to the floor into tiny pieces. "…dive at him," I say with a wince, running a hand down my face. "Oh brother," I groan. "This is turning into disaster."

"Damn it!" Ed yells, stamping his foot in frustration, crunching even more fine china beneath his tread. "Why in the hell aren't you guys helping me?"

"Because you're doing such a fine job yourself," I tell him dryly. "By the time you get through, Macy's won't have to worry about having a fire sale, they'll have an Ed Wells sale, to get rid of the damaged merchandise."

"And Ed will be the first thing on the sale table," Reed grins. "75 percent off Idiot Boys!"

"Yeah, you'd have a hard time moving THAT piece of merchandise," Brinkman says. "No one in their right mind would buy Ed, even if he was only a penny."

"I dunno, someone might give you a bright shiny button for him," Reed says. "Or maybe pocket lint."

"You'd trade decent pocket lint for Ed Wells?" I ask. "You've got to be kidding!"

"You know, I'm RIGHT HERE!" Ed snaps. "I can hear what you jackasses are saying about me."

"And it's what we say about you when you AREN'T here that is even more interesting," Reed tells him.

Raoul, in the meantime, has apparently wandered away from the housewares area. "Where's Raoul?" I ask, looking around.

Suddenly, there's a bunch of screaming from over our heads, and a throng of shoppers rapidly flee down the nearby escalator, not waiting for the little moving steps to deposit them on the ground floor. They rush by us in a panicked mob.

"Oh no, don't tell me," Ed says with a frown. "Raoul took the up escalator, didn't he?"

"It would appear that way," I say.

Ed steps onto the escalator. "You know, if the four of us work together, we could catch this stupid bird," he tells us.

"But you're doing such a fine job yourself," I tell him. "We'd just be in the way."

Brinkman, Reed, and I climb on the escalator, too, following Ed up. "Second floor, men's furnishings, suits, and sportswear," Reed intones in a deep voice. "Sporting goods and fine home electronics." I stare at him. "What, I've always wanted to say that," he says as we step off. "I think I would have made a good floorwalker."

* * *

Raoul has made himself quite at home in the electronics department, happily watching a tennis match on a brand-new Zenith 24-inch color tv, with stereo sound. His wattle wiggles as he watches the players swat the ball back and forth. He loses interest in that when it goes to a commercial for Folgers, and meanders over to the next tv set, this one showing "The Price Is Right" with Bob Barker. He watches as four contestants bet on a showcase featuring a dinette set, complete with dinnerware place settings. When one woman guesses the correct price, she jumps up and down with joy, screaming. Raoul evidently is quite happy that the lady won the dinette set, too, since he bounces up and down, squawking and flapping his wings excitedly. He pays us no mind as we approach him, Chanel Number Ed still at the forefront.

"You know, my wife likes that game show," Brinkman says. "That and Password. A lot of times, if I'm off that day, I'll watch along with her. It's not too bad."

"I don't mind The Price Is Right," Reed says. "Sometimes I try to guess along with the contestants, see how close I come to winning a showcase showdown." He looks at me. "What about you, Pete, do you watch game shows?"

I shrug. "Eh…I like Hollywood Squares. And The Match Game."

"This time, turkey, it's war," Ed mutters, ignoring us. "We'll see how you like a soundwave assault." He stops in front of a very expensive hi-fi system and peeks inside. There's a record on the turntable, so he picks the needle up, placing it on the record, and gives the volume knob a hearty twist.

THEY SAY WE'RE YOUNG, AND WE DON'T KNOW,

WE WON'T FIND OUT UNTIL-L-L WE GROW.

WELL I DON'T KNOW, IF ALL THAT'S TRUE,

'CUZ YOU GOT ME, AND BAY-BEE I GOT YOU…

BABE…I GOT YOU BABE

I GOT YOU BABE!

…blares out of the speakers.

"JESUS CHRIST, WILL YOU TURN THAT THING DOWN?" I yell at Ed, my hands over my ears. Brinkman and Reed have their hands over their ears, cringing.

"I CAN'T!" Ed yells back. "THE VOLUME KNOB BROKE OFF!" He holds the broken knob up for me to see.

Reed darts forward, yanking the electrical cord out of the socket the hi-fi is plugged into. Sonny and Cher die with a slowing moan of "I gaaaaatttt yewwww baaaayyybbb."

"I hate that song," Brinkman says with a shudder. "I am NOT a big Sonny and Cher fan."

"I don't mind their variety show," Reed says. "Some of the skits are kinda funny."

"Yeah, but Sonny wears that hairy vest thing, reminds me of a caveman or something," Brink tells him. "And Cher, she always looks like somebody just goosed her."

"Maybe Sonny did," Reed says.

"Ed, your soundwave assault must of worked on Raoul," I say. "He's flown the coop."

"Yeah, but where'd he go?" Ed asks, looking around.

"He's over here!" a frightened salesclerk calls from the sporting goods area. "The turkey's over here!"

Sure enough, Raoul is picking and pecking his way around some rather nice fishing poles on display. Suddenly he spots a large stuffed wild turkey on display atop a counter, an advertisment for turkey hunting licenses. Curious, Raoul hops on top of the counter and approaches it with a questioning "Gluk?" He studies it, a hint of lasciviousness in his beady little eyes, then with a fluff of feathers, he promptly mounts it, and commences committing a rather lewd act of turkey love on it, crooning delightedly to the stuffed object of his affection.

"Ewww," Reed, Brinkman, and I, say in unison, grimacing and turning away.

"Turkey porn," Reed says, his hands over his eyes. "Just what I always wanted to see."

"That is SO disgusting,"I say, half-gagging.

"I didn't know turkeys even HAD sex lives," Brinkman says. "And that's a little nugget of knowledge that I could've done without ever finding out."

"So THAT'S how they do it," Ed says, watching the bird with avid amazement. "I thought they came out of eggs!"

"They DO come out of eggs, Ed," I tell him. "How the hell do you think the eggs get fertilized?"

"I dunno," he says. "The egg fairy, maybe?"

"The egg fairy?" Reed snorts. "Are you kidding me, Ed? What are you, five?"

"Let me know when Raoul is done," I tell Ed. "So we can turn around."

"Oh, he's done," Ed says. "He's been done for a minute or so. His little…uh…timer popped out."

"Betcha Ed's wife says that same thing about him in bed," Brinkman whispers gleefully.

"What'd you say?" Ed asks, looking over at the three of us doubled over laughing.

"Never mind," I tell him. "Where's Raoul now?"

"Staring at a baseball," he says, pointing. He frowns. "Hey…that gives me an idea…" he mutters, taking his nightstick out of the ring on his gunbelt. He approaches Raoul stealthily, his nightstick held in his hands like a baseball bat.

"I don't think that's such a good…" I begin, but Ed suddenly whacks at Raoul like he's trying to hit a homer out of the park. "…idea," I finish, as Ed's roundhouse swing completely misses Raoul, but manages to knock over the entire display of fishing rods, sending them clattering to the floor. With an indignant squawk, Raoul rapidly takes his leave of the sporting goods department, deciding that he has more pressing engagements elsewhere.

"I almost had him!" Ed says with dismay.

"Hey, I have an idea," I say. I look over the counter at the cowering salesman. "You have any turkey-callers?" I ask.

Wordlessly he nods, pulling one out from the display case and shoving it at me. "Here," he says. "On the house."

"Thanks," I say, then I hand it to Ed. "Here ya go, Idiot Boy. Try using that to coax Raoul to you."

Ed takes it with a sniff. "I don't think I need artifical help to catch that damned turkey," he haughtily informs me.

"And I think Macy's would have to disagree with you on that, Ed," I tell him. "And by the way, Raoul is headed back downstairs on the escalator."

"Sonofabitch!" Ed hisses, darting towards the escalators, leaving behind him a cloud of Chanel No. 5.

Exchanging wry looks, the three of us fall in behind him once more.

"First floor, toys, jewelry, cosmetics, ladies' better wear, junior misses, and lingerie," Reed says. "Ooh, and let's not forget the bridal salon."

"You'd have made a GREAT floorwalker, Reed," I tell him. "Consider it as a second career when you retire from the force."

* * *

A still slightly green-hued Mac greets us at the bottom of the escalator. "You know, I could've sworn that I just saw a very large white turkey get off of the escalator and wander over to the toy department," he says, his arms folded across his chest. "Now tell me, am I hallucinating or something?"

"No, that's Raoul," I tell him. "He's our animal complaint."

"He's not the only complaint," Mac says. " _I_  got a complaint that there were four policemen tearing up Macy's. At first I thought, 'No, Mac, it can't be any of your guys. Your guys have more brains than that, not to mention class.' Then it dawned on me who'd gotten dispatched to this call. And I decided that yes, it probably was my guys tearing up the department store. I arrived here to find out that my hunch was true."

"He's the one doing the wrecking," I say, pointing to Ed. "We're just supervising."

"They're not helping me," Ed whines. "I'm trying to catch this stupid turkey all by myself, Mac, while they stand around and laugh at me."

"Izzat so?" Mac asks. He looks at me. "That true, Malloy?"

"To be fair, we've offered Ed some advice, not to mention encouragement," I say. "And can we help it if watching Ed going after a turkey is so entertaining?"

"Yes, well, they say fools are easily amused," Mac replies dryly. "Now how about catching this bird so you four can get back on the air?"

I nod to Ed. "Go on, Ed, go into the toy department and capture Raoul. You've got a turkey caller, so use it."

"Because I'm afraid that if I do, the three of you will come flying after me," Ed says, grinning.

"Ooh, did he just burn us?" Reed asks with amusement.

Mac grimaces and waves the air in front of his face. "Phew, who smells like Chanel No. 5?"

"Ed," Brinkman, Reed, and I say in unison.

Ed stalks into the toy department, where Raoul is staring at a large selection of dolls. He pecks at one, which promptly cries "Mama!" at him, and he jumps back, startled. He then casually peruses the rest of the doll selection. Unable to decide between Betsy Wetsy, Chatty Cathy, or Mrs. Beasley, he hops aboard Barbie's psychedelic Malibu Beach Van instead, which begins to roll gently underneath him. Barbie, Ken, Skipper, and quite possibly Midge seem to be hanging on for dear life, their wide little grins plastered on their molded faces, while the van creaks ominously under the weight of Raoul. With a happy "Gluk!" and a flap of his wings, he keeps the van rolling down the aisle, riding it like a surfboard. Amazingly, he maintains his balance.

"A-well-uh, everybody's heard, about the bird…the bird bird bird, the bird is the word," Reed sings. He catches my look. "Hey, I happen to like Surfin' Bird. It's a cool song." He flaps his hands and continues singing. "Well a-dontch-you know, about the bird? Well everybody knows that the bird is the word! A-well the bird bird bird, the bird is the word."

"Oh no, looks like Raoul is gonna hee-hee-hee-hee-hee-WIPEOUT!" Brinkman says.

Sure enough, the Malibu Beach Van with the turkey driver suddenly veers off-road and crashes headlong into the lifesize robotic Santa standing guard at the Macy's North Pole site, bumping the pedestal with a thunk, tragically pitching out Barbie and her friends through the front windshield, grins still plastered on their faces. With a startled gabble, Raoul jumps off of the van, flapping his wings in fear and landing on the pedestal. The happily ho-ho-ho-ing Santa teeters precariously first one way, then the other, and we hold our collective breaths, as Raoul gives one last wing flap and…

…sends the Santa crashing to the floor onto his back in an amazing and vivid display of sparks and smoke from the circuitry shorting out in Santa's head. "Oh, oh, oh," moans the dying Santa, his hands still waving bravely. "Shoo-op at Maaay-ceees for all your Christmas…goooooodddddssss…have yoourrrssellllff a verrrryy merrrryyy Chrissss…maaaass…" he groans, then passes on in a final burst of sparks and smoke. With a grinding screech of inner gears, his hands come to a stop, ironically in a praying postion above his prone body. Smoke and sparks still zing out from his head, and the stench of burning plastic fills the air.

"Oh dear," Reed says. "Santa's done died and gone to heaven." He shakes his head sadly.

"Well, at least the elves are free from his holiday tyranny," Brinkman observes. "Ding, dong, the Santa's dead, the Santa's dead, the Santa's dead…ding dong the evil Santa's dead," he sings.

"Hey, did you know that if you rearrange the letters of Santa's name, it spells out Satan?" Reed asks.

"Yeah," Brink tells him. "I've known that since second grade. But I could never figure out what Santa had to do with going to hell. I mean, here's a nice old guy who loves to give out presents, but yet he's possibly a minion for the dark side? Doesn't make sense."

"Maybe Christmas is the only time Santa is really a good guy," Reed muses. "All the other 364 days of the year, he's a complete ass, giving out candy canes that taste like liver and feet, you know? And horrible toys, like a square slinky with only three coils, or a Mr. Zucchini Head, or Tunkertoys, little toys that you get nasty splinters from."

"How would you know what feet taste like, Reed?" Brink asks suspiciously, giving Reed the hairy eyeball.

"Do you see what I'm dealing with here, Mac?" Ed whines pitifully. "They're no help at all!"

"I hope you guys realize we've got an audience," Mac says, gesturing to the plate glass windows that stretch around the Macy's store. They've got various holiday displays in them, but right now, hordes of curious shoppers stare in at us, their noses pressed to the glass. Right near the entrance to the store, I spot a handful of newsies, both print media and televison, including Channel Five's Action News Reporter On The Scene, Christopher England. He's backed by his cameraman, and he peers in at us, microphone clutched in his perfectly manicured hand. He sweeps a hand through his ultra-styled hair as he catches sight of himself in the plate glass window. He straightens his official on-the-spot reporter trench coat, and cupping his hand to his mouth, he breathes into it and then sniffs, checking for either bad breath or the smell of bourbon.

"Jean swears he's wearing a toupee," Jim remarks, catching sight of Christopher England preening himself. "Nobody could have that perfect of a hairdo."

"I know he gets his teeth bleached at the dentist's office," Brinkman says. "His dentist is the same as mine. I ran into him there one afternoon, when I had to get a toothache checked out. Believe me, his friendly exterior is completely fake. He's an ass in real life."

"Why? Did you try to speak with him?" I ask Brinkman.

"Yeah, I told him we enjoyed his 'City Moments' segments on Saturday nights, and his reply was to tell me that evidently I didn't have anything BETTER to do on my Saturday nights, if I enjoyed watching that," Brinkman says. "Then he offered me his autograph, and I told him where he could stick his pen."

"Ooh, maybe I'll get to be on tv!" Ed exclaims. "The hero that saved Macy's Department Store from a wildly rampaging turkey!" He puffs himself up like he's a superhero, throwing his chest out with self-importance.

"And then you'll become famous!" Reed tells him. "As famous as Don Knotts!"

"And you'll receive hundreds of endorsement requests from companies wanting you to endorse their products! You'll become rich!" Brinkman adds.

"And maybe you'll get your own television series featuring you as the director of an animal shelter, since you rescued Macy's from the rampaging turkey!" I tell him. "It can have Mark Harmon as a plucky animal control officer, and David Huddleston as the kindly old veterinarian!"

"Quit encouraging him, he's full of himself as it is," Mac warns, which makes Ed promptly deflate in defeat.

In the meantime, Raoul has hopped up onto the throne reserved for the jolly old elf himself, and is eyeballing the nine tiny reindeer flying in formation over the chair. With a flap of his wings, Raoul flies up to the arch the reindeer are attached to, staring at the red flashing bulb that is Rudolph's nose.

"You know, I did NOT know domestic turkeys can fly like that," Reed says.

"Especially one that heavy," I add.

"Sure they can fly," Ed tells us. "If you buy 'em an airline ticket!" He cracks up at his own lame joke. "Heh heh, get it? They can fly if you buy 'em an airline ticket!"

"Good," I say. "Then I think we'll all chip in and get you a one-way ticket to Timbuktu, Ed."

"Ha ha," Ed says sourly.

Raoul watches the flashing bulb with intensity, then he tries to eat it, perhaps thinking that it's some form of a light-up maraschino cherry. He pecks at it without much success, and tries to get a better angle at it, his feet clutching the chickenwire arch with sharp talons. However, the poor little reindeer find that having a very large turkey sitting atop them is just too much weight for them to haul, and they collapse, the entire chickenwire arch falling over rather slowly and majestically. The two ginormous candy canes at the sides of Santa's throne topple over with a crash, bits of red-and-white fiberglass flying up into the air, while the red-curtained backdrop caves in the middle and falls to the floor with a swoosh. Dust flies everywhere, and the robotic Santa on the floor comes to life long enough to mourn the passing of his North Pole site with a disgruntled farting sound. "Oh-oh-ohhhh…" he moans dramatically. "Haaaappppyyyyy Eeeeeaassssterrrr."

"Happy Easter?" Reed asks. "What happened to Christmas?"

I shrug. "Well, you know the holidays. They can't wait for one holiday to get done and out of the way before they start promoting the next one."

"True that," Brinkman says. "Pretty soon we'll be celebrating Christmas in July." He gestures to the dead Santa. "You know, that would make an awesome scary movie. The Evil Dead Santas From Space. The promotional tags could read: this is ONE present you DON'T want to get for Christmas!"

"Or how about: he KNOWS if you've been naughty or nice…and you're dead either way!" Reed adds.

"In any case, I certainly wouldn't want something like  _that_ coming down my chimney," I say.

"You don't have a chimney, Pete," Reed says. "You live in an apartment." He scratches his head. "Of course, I suppose Santa could come down your bathroom vent or something."

"Hopefully NOT while I'm in there," I say. "I don't think that would be too pleasant."

"Right," Reed says. "Especially for Santa."

I shoot him a dirty look. "Reindeer poop, Reed, that's what I'm getting you."

"Great, I need to fertilize my garden," he grins.

"Guys?" Mac sighs. "The turkey? Where's he at now?"

"You mean Ed?" Brinkman asks. "He's over there." He jerks a thumb at Ed Wells, who has approached the rubble of the North Pole and is poking about with his nightstick.

"Here, turkey, turkey, turkey," Ed calls, prodding the wreckage carefully. "He's in here somewhere," he calls to us. "I can hear him gobbling."

"Get in there and help him," Mac orders. "Before I write you all up."

"You know, you're pretty hard to take seriously as a Sergeant when you're still the color of a chameleon," I tell Mac.

"And whose fault is that?" Mac asks.

"Not mine," I tell him. "I didn't tell you to dye yourself green."

Reed points to a Mr. Potato Head on a counter display in the toy department as we wade in to help Ed. "I might hafta get me another Potato Head, to replace the one that got spudnapped," he says. "I kinda miss playing with…I mean JIMMY kinda misses playing with the silly thing."

"Do tell," I say. "You know you're pretty weird sometimes, Reed?"

He casts me a smirk. "I hafta be. I ride with you all the time."

"Ooh, look! A slinky dog! A Lionel Train set!" Brinkman exclaims. "That's one of the great joys of having kids, you get to play with their toys."

"Hey, Lincoln Logs! Tinkertoys! And look!" Reed gasps. " _An Easy-Bake Oven!"_

"Uh…an Easy-Bake Oven?" I ask him, raising my eyebrows. "SERIOUSLY?"

"Sure!" he says happily. "No more waiting around for Jean to bake cookies or cakes for me! I just mix them up, pop them in the oven, and walla! a cake in just a few minutes, all for me!"

"Brink, how'd you like to be my partner for the next few days?" I ask.

"Uh…I dunno, Pete," Brink says, eyeing me warily. "You're pretty um…precise in how you handle things."

"And that's a BAD thing?" I ask.

"I swear to God, I've got a bunch of first graders for officers," Mac mutters.

"I've got him under the throne!" Ed cries. "The turkey's under the throne!" The only thing visible is Ed's blue-dacroned butt wiggling up in the air, as he pokes at a voiciferously glukking Raoul with his nightstick.

"Brink, you take the right side, I'll take the left," I tell Brinkman. "Jim, you and Mac stay down here on the floor in case Raoul escapes and gets past us."

"And that's something that is very likely to happen," Mac says.

"C'mon, have a little faith," I tell him.

"And somehow, that's a little short in supply right now," Mac replies.

"I'm gonna try to grab him!" Ed tells us, as we climb the dias to the gold throne. And he does, grabbing at Raoul with a violent motion, causing Raoul to nip at Ed. "OUCH!" Ed yelps. "That sonofabitch bit me!" He makes another grab, and Raoul nips at Ed's face, causing Ed to rear back and hit his head on the underside of the throne, sending the throne toppling over with a wooden crash, and Brinkman and I quickly leaping for safety at the sides of the dias. Brinkman manages to take out Santa's Christmas tree in his dive for safety, the huge plastic pine falling to the tiled floor in a tinkle of shattered ornaments, tangled lights, and flailing Brinkman. I knock over the enormous wooden Nutcracker doll that is standing guard by the throne. It topples onto the already-downed reindeer, just barely missing hitting Ed smack dab in his fat little head.

Raoul, meanwhile, has decided to beat a hasty retreat from these frightful creatures in blue dacron, and scampers past a cowering Ed, flapping and squawking as he runs down the dias towards Mac and Jim. Jim crouches down, preparing to catch the hurrying turkey in his arms, but Raoul has other plans. Instead of running INTO Jim, he runs right UP Jim, causing Jim to shriek and swat at the very large bird that has just scrambled up his face. He falls over and curls into a fetal ball on the floor, hands covering his head. Raoul uses the impetus from his ascent up Reed to take temporary, if unscheduled flight. Flapping his wings frantically, he manages to get enough lift to sail over Mac's head, pooping right onto Mac's hat as he careens through the air like an unwieldy jumbo jet. His flight is short-lived, however, since turkeys that large are not meant to be missile-ized objects, and he lands with a frantic gabble onto the perfume counter, skidding along the glass surface, knocking over the numerous bottles of expensive perfume. He lands with an ungraceful flutter onto the tile floor and beats feet out of sight.

Reed slowly uncurls himself from the floor. "Is it gone?" he asks fearfully, sitting up. "Please tell me it's gone."

"It's gone," I said. "Where to, I don't know.

"Gah," he spits and sputters, coming to his feet, rubbing at his face with his hands. "I hope I didn't get any feathers in my mouth." He shakes his head. "God, that was a sight. One huge-assed turkey scrambling up my body like I was nothing more than a speedbump. I will never look at a Butterball the same way again."

"Well, old Ed nearly got his nuts cracked," I say, gesturing to the fallen Nutcracker soldier that nearly brained Ed.

"Yeah, thanks a LOT, Pete," Ed says, wincing as he rubs at his forehead. "I think I gave myself a concussion." He looks at his fingers. "And that damned turkey drew blood, too."

"Um…a little help here?" Brinkman asks, still stuck in the Christmas tree. "I'm sitting on something sharp and pointy, in a very intimate part of my body. And it's a little uncomfortable."

"Your ass is stuck on the Christmas star," I say, holding my hand out and helping him to his feet.

"Eh…yeah…" Reed says. "Don't think I'd wanna follow  _that_  star any too close."

"Well, at least the Wise Men won't hafta worry about chasing the star across the desert sky," I say. "All they'll hafta do is chase Brink's ass."

"Huh," Brinkman says, dusting himself off. "See if I share MY gifts of frankincense, gold, and myrrh with YOU guys."

"In your case, Brink, I think the Wise Men would bring you a scented candle, a bus token, and a box of Mr. Bubble," I say.

"Hey, I LIKE Mr. Bubble!" Reed says.

"I am definitely running a division made up of the Three Stooges," Mac says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And one of the Marx brothers."

"Ooh, I wanna be Harpo!" Jim says.

Mac takes off his watchcap, looking sadly at the turkey poop adorning it. "That stupid turkey ruined a perfectly good hat." Gingerly settling the hat back onto his head, he looks at us. "Anyone see where the turkey went from here?"

Mr. Kern peeks out from behind the jewelry counter, evidently where he's been hiding this whole time the entire disastrous turkey chase has been going on. "I believe I saw him heading into the bridal salon, Officer," he says timidly.

"Ed, bring that stupid turkey caller and let's get this dumb bird caught," Mac tells him. "Before we destroy this whole store trying to capture him." Mac casts a dour look at the rest of us. "And the three of YOU had better plan on helping, too."

"We're trying," Reed says.

"Yeah, well, try harder," Mac snaps. "We already look like bumbling idiots to the people out there," he says, jerking his thumb at the throngs of laughing people watching our progress through the plate glass windows.

"Soo…we're supposed to try harder at looking like bumbling idiots, or catching the turkey?" Reed asks as we head towards the bridal salon.

"Reed," Mac says with a long-suffering sigh. "What do you think?"

* * *

Macy's Bridal Salon is an elegantly appointed section of the store, with soft lighting bathing the area in a opulent glow, shining down on all the shimmering silks and satins of elaborate wedding gowns, delicate veils, and rainbow-hued bridesmaid dresses. Gentle music plays in the backround and there is a hush over the area, as if the bridal salon is an entirely different world from the store itself. Large mirrors surround the area where brides can try on wedding gowns and admire them from all different angles. It's quiet when we enter, not a soul to be seen, not even Raoul.

"Are we sure he's in here?" Reed whispers.

"It's what Mr. Kern said," I whisper back.

"We'd better check around," Brinkman says in a hushed tone.

"He could be hiding under one of these dresses," Mac rasps.

"Why is everyone whispering?" Ed asks in his normal tone of voice.

Just then, a blue-haired saleslady in cat's-eye glasses peeks out from what is the dressing room area, apparently hearing Ed's voice. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," she tells us sternly. "But men are  _not_ allowed back here. You'll have to leave."

"But we're just trying to…" Reed begins.

She cuts him off, swinging open the gated door and striding out. She's built like the Titanic, and we're the icebergs she's about to run into. "Did you not understand me? This is a  _private_  area. You'll have to leave." She looks down her thin aristocratic nose at us, her lips twitching with displeasure at finding men in her bridal department.

"Look, ma'am," Mac says. "We're policemen. We're trying to round up a stray turkey in the store. Have you by any chance seen him? He's white and very large."

"Indeed I have NOT," she sniffs disdainfully. "Now please…"

She's interrupted by a giddy bride-to-be sailing out of the dressing room, her gaggle of friends giggling beside her. "Miss June, I believe I've found the gown of my dreams!" she says gaily. She catches sight of us with a start, then she smiles brightly. "Oh, hello! What do you think of my gown, my good sirs?" she asks us cheerily. The long train of her gown is still trailing out of the dressing room area, as she takes her spot on the slightly raised pedestal in front of the bank of mirrors in order to admire herself in the elaborate satin wedding gown. And at the end of the long train is good old Raoul, hopping along and pecking at the sequins that keep slipping and sliding oh-so-tantalizingly out of his reach. "Oh, isn't it lovely!" she trills, as Miss June plucks a bridal veil from a nearby display and plops it onto her head. "Just lovely!"

"My dear, you look absolutely gorgeous," Miss June beams, fluffing the veil out with her fingers.

"There he is," Mac whispers out of the corner of his mouth as he spots the turkey chasing the train of the gown. "Don't startle him or the girls. Try to head him back into the dressing room if you can."

"Oh, Sandy, you're such a pretty bride!" coos one of the bride's friends. "Albert is just going to DIE when he sees you in this dress!"

"And wait until he sees me OUT of this dress, on our wedding night!" the bride says naughtily. She and her friends collapse against each other, blushing and giggling.

"Gluk?" Raoul asks, looking confused now that the train of the gown has stopped moving. He hops onto it, plucking at a row of seed pearls. "Gluk!" he says in consternation, as the seed pearls simply refuse to be eaten by him.

"Here, let me adjust the train for you, dear," Miss June says solicitiously. "Then you can see the full eff…AAAAHHHHH!" she shrieks as she catches sight of a large turkey attempting to snack on her expensive wedding gown. Then she faints dead away, falling to the floor with a thud.

"Maybe one of us shoulda caught her, ya think?" Brinkman whispers.

"OH MY GAWD, WHAT IS THAT THING?" the bride-to-be screams as she spots Raoul still pecking at the delightfully mischievous seed pearls. "GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!" she yells at her friends, flapping her hands in fear. And instead of coming to her rescue, they shriek and run out of the salon, leaving her behind in all her bridal glory, along with five policemen, a fainted saleslady, and one very large and apparently ravenous turkey.

"Don't worry, I've got it, miss!" Brinkman yells gallantly, as he dives for Raoul. Instead, he lands on the train of the gown, losing his balance on the slippery satin cloth, and falling down with an "OOF!" and a vicious ripping sound of rending cloth. "Uh-oh," he says warily. "I hope that wasn't my pants."

"AHHHH!" the bride screams. "YOU TORE MY WEDDING GOWN, YOU IDIOT! MY BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL WEDDING GOWN! GET OFF, YOU CLUMSY OAF!" She gives the skirt of the gown a hefty yank, further throwing Brinkman off-balance. Instinctively, he grabs at the sliding cloth with his hands, tearing it completely away from the bride-to-be and exposing her rather attractive rear-end for all the world to see, including Raoul. "AUGH!" she screams, gathering the remnants of satin around her and fleeing to the safety of the dressing rooms.

Ed has spotted Raoul hiding in a display of veils and approaches him once more. Plucking the turkey-caller out of his pocket, he puts it to his mouth and gives it a blast. "GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE!" goes the caller, and Raoul shrinks fearfully away from Ed. "Now I've got you!" Ed says with a satisfied smirk, and lunges into the display of veils.

"GLUK!" Raoul shrieks, flapping away from Ed in alarm, headed for Mac. Mac leaps at him, missing the turkey but taking down a display of frilly petticoats in his attempt. Raoul darts towards Reed and I, stationed at the entrance, and as he flits by, we both dive and try to catch him, knocking heads in the process.

"OW!" Jim yelps, rubbing his head. "You hit me, Pete! Why don't you look where you're going?"

"Likewise!" I snap back, massaging the spot on the top of my skull where we connected rather firmly. "You stupid, hard-headed idiot!"

"Could somebody please help me here?" Mac asks, wallowing among the billowing petticoats and trying to unsuccessfully to stand up. "I feel like I'm being attacked by Scarlett's wardrobe from Gone With The Wind." One of the petticoats has attatched itself to his hat, and he fluffles and fumbles around in an enormous welter of stiff white taffeta layers, satin overslip, and blue dacron, pulling the petticoat off. Another one remains attached to him around his waist. "One of the damned things has gotten stuck to my gunbelt," he mutters, tugging on it.

Reed and I help him, trying to pluck the petticoat from our sergeant's gunbelt, which is obviously not something covered in Academy training, while Ed disentangles himself from the display rack of veils. One is perched rather jauntily over his watchcap, the ivory netting flowing gracefully around Ed's ugly mug.

"Eww," Brinkman says with a grimace. "Here comes the Bride of Frankenstein."

"If I saw something like THAT coming up the aisle on my wedding day, I'd turn around and run like hell," Reed says.

"Oh, stuff it," Ed snaps, trying to yank the veil off of his head.

Miss June has come to in the meantime, and upon catching sight of Ed in his veil and Mac in his petticoat, faints dead away again.

"Hold STILL!" I order Mac. "You're only getting tangled up worse!" One of the pieces of taffeta has somehow gotten hooked onto his nightstick ring on his gunbelt.

"Lawdy Miss Scarlett, I don' know nuthin' 'bout freein' gunbelts!" Reed laughs.

"Oh, shut up!" Mac snaps, yanking hard on the petticoat. It comes away with a tearing sound. He drops it to the floor, where it settles with a puffy hush.

"You can come out now, miss!" Brinkman calls to the bride hiding in the dressing room. "The turkey's gone!"

"But you guys AREN'T!" she yells. "I'm not setting one foot out of this room until you five have gone!"

"Huh, that's gratitude for ya," Ed says with a sniff.

"I…uh…hate to tell you this, but Raoul has ventured into the lingerie department," I tell my co-workers.

"Oh great," Mac moans. "Just what we need. Trying to chase a turkey in ladies' undergarments."

Reed and Brinkman both chuckle, while I hide my grin behind my hand. We try to avoid one another's eyes, because we know that if we look at each other, we'll crack up once more.

"What's so funny about that?" Mac asks, catching our furtive glances. "If the turkey's in women's underwear, then we need to get into women's underwear and catch him."

"Mac, I honestly don't think they make anything in your size," Reed tells him, deadpan, and then Brinkman, Reed and I start laughing.

"They were acting that way earlier," Ed tells Mac. "When I suggested we get into lingerie and catch the turkey." He stares at us as we lean on each other for support, gasping and cackling with hilarity. "Maybe you should write them up, Mac."

"Let's go," Mac orders, shaking his head. "You giggling fools."

* * *

The five of us creep stealthily into the lingerie department, eyes peeled for Raoul, and perhaps any gorgeous female who might be wandering about, unencumbered by much clothing. The area is a bit busy, and our presence is noted by fully clothed females who regard the five bluesuits invading their territory with rather baleful glances. We fan out in our search for Raoul.

A sturdily built saleslady who is a walking advertisement for Macy's girdles, approaches me. "Can I help you find anything, sir?" she asks me in an officious tone.

"Uh…no," I say, scanning the area for Raoul. "I'm looking for a turkey."

"Oh, we don't offer anything trimmed with turkey feathers," she says. "Only maribou. Is it a gift for your wife or girlfriend?"

"Neither," I say. "It's not a gift for anyone. I'm looking for a turkey that's gotten loose in here."

She stares at me for a moment. "I see," she says, staring at me as she digests what I've just told her. She begins backing away from me. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I see a customer in need of some assistance." And with that, she scurries away from the strange policeman talking turkey.

"Hey, what in the world is THIS?" Brinkman asks, holding up a lacy black garter belt. "Some sort of slingshot or something?"

"It's a garter belt," Mac tells him. "It holds their nylons in place."

"No kidding," Brink says, giving it a twang with his fingers. "It could hold a freakin' spaceship in place."

Ed plucks a lacy blue teddy trimmed with maribou off of a nearby rack. "Whaddya think?" he asks, holding it up to himself.

"Um…I'd go with the pink one, Ed. It suits your coloring better," Jim tells him with a snort.

"Not for me, you idiot. For Betty," Ed snaps.

"I dunno, Ed," Brinkman tells him. "I think if I were Betty, I'd be dressing in long flannel nightgowns and a cast-iron chastity belt."

"And I'd bury the key," I add.

Reed holds up a black bra with a front-hook closure. "Too bad they didn't make these when I was dating Jean," Reed muses. "Would've made for a LOT less fumbling in the back seat of my car."

Mac is eyeballing a mannequin dressed in a gorgeous Chinese silk robe, elaborately embellished with delicate flowers and dragons. "I think I just found Mary's Christmas present," he says. "I wonder if it has a matching nightie?"

"You mean you two still get it on after all those years of being married?" Ed asks in amazement. "Jeez, aren't you afraid one of you is gonna break a hip or something?"

Mac shoots him a nasty glare. "We're not THAT old, Wells. And our love life is not up for discussion here."

"Yeah, you know what they say…" Reed begins.

Mac turns his glare onto Reed. "And what DO they say, Reed?" he asks in a warning tone.

"Uh…ah…um…" Reed stammers. "Eh…heh…heh…eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you might die?" he quickly adds.

"I don't get it, what does THAT have to do with Mac's love life?" Ed asks in confusion.

"Ed, just shut up," Brinkman tells him, rolling his eyes. Suddenly, he points to Raoul, strutting out from underneath a display of long silken nightgowns. "I see him!" he hisses to the rest of us. "He's headed into the dressing rooms!"

" _I'll_ take care of this," Ed tells us cockily, adjusting his gunbelt once more. "You idiots put me in charge of catching this damned bird, and I'm gonna do it, by God!" He pulls the turkey-caller out of his pocket and puts it in his mouth. And as his earlier whine for assistance is forgotten, one can nearly see inside of Ed's tiny brain, the image of his heroism saving several damsels in distress from a maurading turkey…the interviews on tv, the ticker tape parade, the guest spot on Johnny Carson. Off he goes with a Chanel No. 5 swagger, strutting as peacockish as Raoul.

"It wasn't that we really put you in charge of catching the turkey, Ed," I call to him. "I think the idea was that like would follow like, you know? One turkey would follow the other."

"Ha ha," Ed says over his shoulder. "You wait, Malloy. I'll prove you wrong."

"I'm worried more that you'll prove me right," I say wickedly.

Raoul has stopped in the middle of the dressing room and is looking around with curiosity at the few women within, in various stages of undress, the lucky bird. Perhaps Raoul is drinking in the unabashed nudity before him; perhaps he's intrigued by the sight of so many pink fleshy creatures dressed in what appears to be torture instruments. In any case, he stands there turning his head this way and that as the women judge themselves in the mirrors, completely unaware that Ed is creeping up behind him. And lo, Ed ALMOST has him, but then fate deals Ed a fickle hand, as disaster hits once more, unfolding in a series of rapid, startling, and hilarious events.

Nearly atop his prey, Ed gives a blast on the turkey-caller. "GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE!" goes the turkey caller. "EEEEEKKKK!" shriek several startled and scantily clad females as they catch sight of both Ed and the turkey that has suddenly invaded their dressing room without warning. Ed dives at Raoul, his arms closing on empty air, as Raoul flaps and squawks in alarm, scurrying under a padded seat in a corner. Ed lands flat on his face, picks himself up, and is promptly clobbered by a stout elderly woman in a girdle and bra, wielding her umbrella like it's the legendary Arthurian sword. She brings it down on Ed's shoulders in a series of whacks, while berating him loudly in what sounds like Russian.

"Ow, OW! Stop hitting me, you old bat!" Ed yelps, trying to shield himself from her blows. It only serves to incense her further, and she renews her attack on him, this time smacking him right on the head. "Stop it!" he shrieks.

In the meantime, the other ladies in the dressing room have quickly gathered up what little they can find to cover up with, and have taken flight from the dressing room with shrill screams. And the sight of several buxom bouncing beauties in nothing but their scanties, exiting so quickly and gracefully, has certainly gotten the attention of the rest of us, as we gaze after them in rather rapt and slack-jawed admiration.

"I suppose someone should uh…should uh…um…" Mac begins, eyes never straying from the rapidly retreating lovely view. "You know…"

"Yeah…about that," Reed says, cocking his head slightly in order to get a better view. "Definitely…that…"

"So…what were we…uh…doing?" Brinkman asks, staring. "I…um…lost track."

"Something about…um…Ed," I say, practically drooling. "And…uh…ah…parakeet, maybe?"

'WILL YOU JACKASSES GET IN HERE AND HELP ME?" Ed hollers. "GRANDMA SPUTNIK IS TRYING TO KILL ME!"

With that, the spell woven by the beauties is broken, and we turn our attention back to Ed, who is still trying to fend off Grandma Sputnik's blows. His hat lies on the floor, while his shirt has popped a button off and has come untucked from his pants. Mac steps through the doors in order to assist Ed, and Grandma Sputnik turns the attack on him, unleashing several furious blows onto his head and shoulders. Brinkman darts in and grabs ahold of her wrist, while Reed darts in and grabs the other. I relieve her of her umbrella of doom, and we set her down on one of the padded seats.

Wild-eyed and panting, his uniform in disarray, Ed's eyes frantically search the room for the turkey. "Where is that damned bird?" he rasps. "I'm gonna KILL him!" He puts the turkey-caller to his lips and blows the sounding call.

And with that clarion call to action, Raoul declares all-out war on Ed Wells. With an enraged "GABBLE GABBLE GABBLE" war cry, Raoul launches himself from underneath the seat, his beady little eyes glittering with fury, as he attacks Ed with the anger worthy of a bald eagle. Flapping his wings, he digs his talons into the front of Ed's uniform shirt, while pecking viciously at Ed's head.

"GAH!" Ed yells, dancing around and flailing his arms, trying to dislodge the attacking bird. "GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!" He rushes headlong past us, right out of the dressing room, as Raoul continues his beakal assault on Ed's skull, while clawing at his shirt. Ed drops to the floor, rolling around as if he were on fire, and all we can see is a mass of blue uniform and white turkey writhing around. Feathers whirl in the air. Then Ed manages to work his nightstick free from the ring on his gunbelt, and begins to whack at Raoul. He manages to break Raoul's hold on him, smacking the squawking bird away from him in a violent thrust of the baton. Ed scrambles to his feet, his eyes mad with anger, and he scrabbles for his service revolver in the holster at his side, yanking it free.

"NO, ED!" we all yell in horror, as he draws down on the turkey and prepares to fire his weapon inside the store. "DON'T SHOOT!" Reed and I jump him first, trying to grab his weapon, but he throws us off, knocking Reed into a display of panties, and me into a bunch of maribou-trimmed teddies. As we struggle to our feet, Mac and Brinkman try to take Ed down next, Mac grappling with Ed's wrist. "Damn it, Ed, drop it!" Mac yells. "That's an order!"

"LET ME GO!" Ed screams, thrashing around. "I'M GONNA KILL THAT DAMNED BIRD!" Yanking on his gun wrist, Mac finally gets Ed to relinquish the weapon, but the struggle between him, Ed, and Brinkman puts the three of them off-balance and they topple to the floor, knocking over a display of Christmas panties, sending them flying in every direction.

"Incoming panty assault!" Reed yells, ducking as one zings merrily past his head. I pay him no attention, as I'm trying to disentangle myself a rather daring little satin nightgown number with the words "Guess who's been naughty this year?" emblazoned across the chest. And over amongst the downed Christmas panties, Ed Wells still struggles against Mac and Brinkman's grip.

"You know, that's a good look for you, Malloy," says a familiar female voice.

I glance up to see my neighbor, Angie Carter, looking at me with a smirk. She's wearing the khaki uniform of an Animal Control officer. Her partner stands next to her, grinning with amusement at the display of obviously disheveled police officers. A large net is draped over his shoulder.

"Uh…hi, Angie," I say sheepishly, dropping the satin nightie to the floor. I pluck the matching panties from my head. "I uh…didn't know you worked for animal control." I feel my entire body blush from embarassment.

"And I didn't know you modeled ladies' underwear in your spare time," she replies.

"WHERE'S THAT GODDAMNED TURKEY?" Ed Wells spits rabidly, trying to get to his feet, and being hampered by Mac and Brink. "I'M GONNA BREAK HIS SCRAWNY LITTLE NECK WITH MY BARE HANDS!"

"Ed Wells, I should've known," Angie says with a roll of her eyes. "A turkey chasing a turkey." She turns to her partner. "Okay, Howie, let's get the bird back into his cage, before these ya-hoos destroy any more of Macy's." Reaching into her pants pocket, she pulls out a handful of cracked corn. Spotting Raoul hiding underneath a rack of bathrobes, she approaches him slowly, casting a warning glance at the rest of us. "You guys stay back," she tells us. "Let me do my job." When she's about four feet away from Raoul, she kneels down, tossing a bit of corn onto the floor in front of him. "C'mon, baby," she croons gently to him. "It's okay now. No one's gonna hurt you."

"I AM!" Ed growls. "I'm gonna…"

"SHUT UP, ED!" Mac hisses.

Quivering, Raoul slowly comes out from underneath the bathrobes. "Gluk?" he says timidly, eyeballing the corn in front of him. He picks it up, gobbling it down.

"That's right, sweetie," Angie croons softly. "No big bad policemen are gonna hurt you. You just eat that corn." She tosses another few pieces, which Raoul snarks down greedily. "Be ready with the net, Howie, in case I scare him," she whispers to her partner. Slowly standing up, she begins to walk carefully backwards, throwing corn down in front of Raoul, who follows her daintily, glukking with delight at the feast being presented to him. "That's right, you're just a hungry little guy," she soothes him, edging back towards his cage in the middle of the store. "Don't you guys startle him," Angie warns us, continuing to drop corn on the floor for Raoul. Silently, we follow a-ways back from the odd little parade, a hush falling over the store as we watch Angie at work. Even Ed is quiet, his anger gone, replaced by amazement. Cooing and talking to Raoul in a gentle tone, Angie keeps him following her, dropping corn for him to gobble up. When she reaches his cage in the center of the store, she drops a few kernels onto the table the cage is on, then some inside the cage itself. Stepping back, she allows Raoul to hop up onto the table in pursuit of the corn. When he hops into the cage for the last tasty morsels, she quickly moves forward and shuts the cage door, securing it. She pours the rest of the corn from her hand into Raoul's food bowl. "See?" she says. "The poor thing was only hungry." She gives us a disgusted look, smoothing her long brunette hair behind her ears with her hands. "That's how you catch a turkey, you idiots." She peers into the cage. "Oh look," she says, obviously dismayed. "You've hurt him."

We peer into the cage at Raoul, who has apparently shrunk quite a bit in size since his recapture. Sure enough, there are bald spots on his skin where feathers have fallen out, and one talon is bleeding. He peers back at us with beady-eyed curiosity. "Gluk?" he asks. "Gabble!"

"You know, he really doesn't look all that big now," Reed says.

Angie feeds Raoul a bit of corn through the cage wires. "He's only about twenty, twenty-five pounds, tops." She looks at us. "Why, how big did you guys think he was?"

"At least fifty pounds," I say.

"What's gonna happen to him now?" Brinkman asks, poking a finger through the wire and wiggling it at Raoul, who studies it intently.

"He'll be quarantined, taken to a local vet and checked out. If he gets a clean bill of health, he'll likely be turned over to one of our rescue farms for rehabilitation," Angie says.

"You're gonna rehabilitate a stupid TURKEY?" Ed asks. "Why not make him someone's Thanksgiving dinner? It's what I'D do."

"Maybe so," Angie says. "But after what this turkey's been through today, I'd say he deserves a chance to live, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, Ed, he took you on and kicked your ass, so I'd say let him live," Reed says.

"He did NOT kick my ass," Ed mutters. "I woulda had him, if you idiots woulda let me have my gun."

Angie turns to Mr. Kern. "We'll go ahead and take the turkey with us, Mr. Kern, if you don't mind," she tells him.

"Great," he says. "As long as you take the other five turkeys, too." He gestures to us.

"In the future, I suggest you give out inanimate objects as contest prizes, not live animals," she tells him. She grasps one side of the wire crate containing Raoul, while her partner, Howie, grasps the other. They begin to walk towards the entrance of Macy's and we follow. "You'd better get Ed to the hospital, have his scratches checked out," she tells Mac over her shoulder.

"Why, can turkeys be rabid?" Ed asks.

"Oh sure," she says, deadpan. "They can have all sorts of diseases dangerous to humans."

"Uh…like what?" Ed asks.

"Like  _loco butterballitis_ ," she tells him seriously.

Ed blanches. "Oh God. What are the symptoms of that?" he asks in horror.

"The sudden urge to eat cracked corn. An unexplained desire to scratch in the dirt for bugs. Your nose turns red, like a turkey's wattle," she tells him. She gives him a sly glance over her shoulder. "Oh, and by the way, Ed, Chanel No. 5 is SO you."

Reed nudges me, giving me a wink. "Pete, you oughta marry that girl," he grins.

The pnuematic doors swing open and we step out, flashbulbs popping in our faces and blinding us, as the reporters take our pictures. Angie and Howie carry the crate containing Raoul over to their truck, while Mr. Kern has a few words with Mac.

"Officer! Officer!" Christopher England shouts at Ed Wells, waving him over.

Brinkman grabs Ed's sleeve. "Hey Ed, I thought you wanted to go to the hospital," he says.

"Yeah," Ed says, nodding, as dreams of fame resurface in his brain. "Right after my interview with Mr. England."

Reed and I watch as Angie and Howie load Raoul and his crate into their Animal Control truck. "So tell me, Pete," Angie says rather saucily, slamming the door shut on Raoul. "Have you been naughty or nice this year?"

"Depends on what you consider naughty versus nice," I tell her.

"Maybe you two should get together over dinner and discuss it," Reed offers helpfully.

I shoot him a glare. "I'm perfectly capable of asking Angie out on a date myself," I tell him sharply. "So, how about it?" I ask her. "Would you like to go out to dinner with me sometime?"

She regards me thoughtfully. "Mmm…depends," she says, climbing into the passenger side of the truck.

"On what?" I ask.

"Will you be wearing pretty panties like you had on in the store back there?" she grins. "It was a pretty cute look for you, Malloy." She leans towards me conspiratorially. "I just adore a man who can embrace his feminine side, after all," she husks rather sexily as she bats her eyes at me.

"Uh…" I gulp, suddenly speechless.

"For the first time, Pete Malloy is struck dumb by a woman," Reed cackles with delight.

"See you around, Pete," Angie laughs, as Howie puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the curb.

"Uh…yeah," I say, staring after the truck.

"Seriously, Pete. Marry that girl," Reed laughs.

"Well, the good news is that Macy's insurance will cover the damages incurred in the store," Mac says, coming over to us after his conference with Mr. Kern. "So the police department is off the hook for monetary restitution. Of course, the department will still likely pay SOMETHING towards the damages, just to maintain goodwill."

"What's the bad news?" Reed asks.

"Uh…well, the store wishes to inform us that none of us are allowed on the property again," Mac says. He frowns, staring at Ed Wells, who is striking a pose for the cameras. "What in the hell is Ed doing now?" he asks.

Brinkman overhears Mac. "He's regaling them with how he bravely caught a rampaging turkey at Macy's," he tells us, rolling his eyes.

"From the top again, Officer Wells," Christopher England says, sticking his microphone in Ed's face. "Tell us how you nearly single-handedly brought down a very dangerous wild animal that was loose in Macy's Department Store."

Ed hitches up his scratched gunbelt and pulls his battered watchcap down over his eyes, puffing out his chest with an important air, his uniform shirt in shreds. "Well, you see, Christopher, it was a VERY large turkey that went on a rampage in the store. Musta weighed eighty pounds, had a beak like a machete, talons like razor blades. When we got here, it was going crazy in the store, attacking customers, stealing wigs, knocking merchandise over. It was obviously a major threat to the shoppers inside the store. My fellow officers were frightened of it, but I wasn't. No sirree, Ed Wells isn't afraid of anything, let alone a crazed turkey. So I told myself, 'Ed, now you just hafta get in there and show that turkey who's boss'…" Ed pauses. "Are you sure you're getting my good side?" he asks the photographers.

"Oh brother," Mac groans, rubbing his face. "I'm NOT looking forward to the eleven o'clock news tonight." He taps Brinkman. "Brinkman, pull Stupidman away from his adoring public and run him over to Central Receiving to get checked out," Mac says. "Then get him back to the station so he can change his uniform. Then get back on the air." Mac looks at Reed and I. "That goes for you two, also. Get back on the air."

"Roger, Mac," I say, heading to Adam-12.

"You know, I wonder if Ed will remember us little people when he becomes rich and famous," Reed says as we pull away from the curb. He picks up the mike and clears us from the animal complaint

"Are you kidding?" I ask. "Ed forgets now, as it is."

"I'll have to remember to ask him for his autograph," Reed says.

"Yeah, especially the next time he and Brinkman take their seven with us," I say. "Make sure you get it on the dinner check."

"Just what I was thinking," Reed chuckles. "See? Great partners think alike, Pete."

"Yeah, except about the Easy Bake Oven," I say. I glance over at him. "I mean, SERIOUSLY?"

* * *

"…And I told myself, 'Ed, that bad boy ain't no regular turkey, that there is a super-turkey, and it's pretty obvious that it's gonna be up to you to bring that mother down,'" we hear Ed heartily bragging to a few of our fellow officers when we walk into the breakroom the next day. He's got a few bandages on his hands and streaks of yellow iodine on the scratches on his face. "I could see that the rest of them were afraid of that huge bird…musta weighed a hundred pounds, at least…but I told myself that I wasn't afraid of a big old featherbed, and then the fight was on."

"Uh…Ed, you get a look at the morning paper?" Jim asks, exchanging an amused glance with me.

Ed shakes his head. "No, but I expect I got quite a nice write-up. I was a bit disappointed they didn't air the interview I gave Christopher England last night, but I guess they had to cut it for time's sake." He narrows his eyes at Jim. "Why, what's it say?"

"See for yourself," Jim chuckles, tossing the paper in front of Ed and pointing to the front-page picture.

"THE TURKEY THAT RAMPAGED THROUGH MACY'S YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, CAUSING THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS OF DAMAGE," reads the caption under the photo. Ed is front and center in the picture, while just in a tiny bit of the backround, Angie and Howie can be seen loading Raoul's crate into their truck.

"See? I told you I'd get a good write-up!" Ed crows delightedly. Obviously the meaning of the photo caption is completely lost on him.

"And it's a well-deserving one, too," I tell him with a straight face. "For battling the gigantic Butterball."

"Damn straight," Ed nods. "You buncha wussies weren't much help." He then returns to telling his story to his semi-bored crowd. "As I was sayin', this huge-assed turkey…musta weighed at least a hundred and twenty pounds…"

"Do you think he got it?" Reed asks me, fishing in his pocket for a dime. He drops the dime into the coffee vending machine, and waits for it to dispense his coffee. "The tagline under the photo, I mean."

I drop a dime in, too, and wait for my coffee. "I doubt it. Ed's motto is: ignorance is bliss."

Reed takes a seat at one of the tables. "By the way, Jean wanted me to make sure you were still coming over for Thanksgiving."

I sit down across from him. "I dunno. It's a family holiday, Jim. You should spend it with Jean and Jimmy." I take a sip of my coffee.

"Pete, you're family, too," Reed says. "Jean's making all the trimmings; turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, gravy, pumpkin pie…man, I'm hungry just thinking of all that." He casts a wry glance at me. "And you know, you're always welcome to bring a guest."

"Who in the world would I bring along?" I ask, slightly dismayed.

"Well…Angie seems pretty nice," he grins. "And she's already seen you in a pair of pretty panties, as she put it."

I stare at him. "Now don't you go reading anything into Angie and I," I warn. "As far as we're concerned, we're just neighbors, got it?"

"You know, you really oughta get married and settle down," Reed begins on his usual lament. "Start a family of your own. You'd be mighty surprised at how happy a family can make you, Pete. Why just the other day, Jean had a nice glass of iced tea waiting for me when I got done working in the garage. A home and family, Pete, that's where the true happiness is…"

Sipping my coffee, I let his voice drone on, while my mind wanders.  _Hmm…I wonder what Mr. Potato Head body part I should mail to him next?_  I think to myself.  _Maybe the little glasses and nose? An arm? Ooh, an arm, definitely an arm. No, wait. The little feet might work better. Or the other ear. Hmm…_


End file.
